Memories of Summer
by MidnightBlast
Summary: An extended stay in Jonesboro, Georgia during the summer of 1868 awakens John Henry's heart. And it's during the summer of 1880 that Doc allows himself to indulge those memories. A two-part story.
1. Part I: Mattie Holliday

Writing this made me realize how much I have missed writing. It's been too long, my friends.

Notes:

1\. 'The Penrose Backroom' is not abandoned. The grand finale is in progress!

2\. History is my playground here. There are true, loose, and warped facts scattered throughout, including the published novels. If you want the known reality of Doc's life & this tale, I'm happy to share what I learned during my research.

3\. But ultimately, shamelessly, this was born from Val Kilmer's handsome and roguish Doc Holliday, and his very talented hands. There might even be a touch of Iceman in here somewhere.

 **Memories of Summer**

 _Part I: Martha Ann "Mattie" Holliday, Summer of 1868_

Elegant auburn curls fall gracefully on pale shoulders, disturbed ever so gently the by occasional breeze. Bright green eyes take in word after word from the book in her hands. She's so pleased it's a lovely afternoon to read on the porch. The heat inside had just been too stifling and muggy, but the breeze that sweeps the porch in rolling waves is the perfect reprieve. It's the best place to retire for an afternoon of leisurely reading.

As a steady income family, her father saw it a point of pride that his eldest daughter was well-versed in the latest, tasteful, literature. That's probably why the presence of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina surprised her so. Her friends were all atwitter about the adulterous relationship, swearing off such an act regardless of the man, and Mattie couldn't agree more wholeheartedly. The motive seemed so foreign to her, she just has to read the novel to try to understand.

Admittedly, the porch is distracting. The occasional band of children giggle past chasing their hoops, while comfortably situated men trot past on horseback, tending to matters of home and business. Father Lewis' family even happens by in their wagon, heading into town.

"Miss Mattie! Hello!" The youngest, Ellen, has little concern for social niceties at such a tender age, but her mother isn't thrilled by the sudden outburst. Mattie doesn't return the call, but drops her book for a friendly wave. Ellen has always been her favorite on the priest's children.

She leans forward for her cup of tea, noting the dampness along her back. It's only early June but this week has been unseasonably hot. The tepid tea is refreshing against the breeze as she enjoys the cool slide down her throat.

With lazy movements, she settles back against the rocking chair and lifts her book. But before she resumes, she can't help but notice him coming down the street.

Cousin John Henry's arrival from Valdosta had been very sudden last week. Father had only formally said John Henry would be staying the summer to assist at the rail station. But Mattie had overheard more than that. One night, before announcing her presence in the parlor, she could overhear her parent's whispers. A violent scandal, they had said. It seemed impossible to believe, looking at him now – lean, smartly suited and smiling amicably at those he passed. Did he really have a capacity for such violence?

A bead of sweat runs down her neck, itching and soaking into the collar of her dress as she watches him open the gate to the front yard, crossing to the porch.

"A pleasant afternoon, to you, Cousin Mattie. You are a rare site on this particularly warm afternoon." She smiles, feeling an unbidden flush that has nothing to do with the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Why, whatever do you mean?" His answering smile is so endearing. Cousin John's always been a handsome one.

"You look as cool and serene as an azalea caught in the breeze up here on this porch. I feel refreshed from my walk, already."

"Always the charmer, John Henry. I pray you don't get too close or you'll shatter your delusions. Please, do sit for a spell. I'm afraid you'll find no relief from the heat in yonder."

"A generous offer, I'm honored. Thank you." His hat falls to his hands revealing his slightly dampened hair, the deep green of his eyes. She earmarks the page in her novel, laying it on the table in order to make polite conversation. He settles into the rocker next to her, the breeze merciful against their sweat-sticky skin. "Now, do tell, what an innocent soul like yours is doing by reading such an indecent novel."

"A sinful story, perhaps, but anything indecent is a product of your own mind."

"That may be, but what prompted your decision to read into such a world of sin?"

"How are we to know temptation if we cannot recognize it? What happened to that woman to cause her to fall so far from grace? I'll be honest—well, have you read it?"

"Indeed, I have." His answer is pleasantly surprising.

"Then, surely you know her actions are born of pure, selfish desire. Forsaking the wedding vows she made in the eyes of God, her place in society, her child; and all for the supposed love of a moral-less young man who allows her to live in sin with him. It goes against everything sensible." His mouth hardens into a tight line, his eyes all at once haunted and frustrated.

"Matters of the heart are seldom sensible, Mattie." She knows he's thinking of his father and step-mother. It was a crushing blow when Major Holliday remarried after only three months of mourning for Aunt Alice Jane.

"May I inquire after your father's health? Last I heard, there was rumor he was poorly." She tries to keep her voice pleasant, but there's an air of stiff formality she can't remove.

"You shouldn't waste your worry on him." John's voice is tight with coiled emotion. "Major continues to do as he will with little recourse to anything else."

"I trust you must know how he still cares for you. His only son and heir." She smiles meekly against his deepening frown. "That's not something he'll easily cast asunder."

"I envy your simplistic hope."

"No call to be unkind, cousin. If things seem bleak now, stay strong. The good lord rewards those who don't despair and remain true to him." A wry, even cynical edge curls his lips, his eyes softening with warm fondness.

"I had forgotten how strong you are in your faith. It's comforting to know you still hold true."

"It's only by holding true that strength remains." She tilts her head with a curious, hopeful air. "You should join us for mass on Sunday. Maybe it will lift your spirits."

"In my experience, protestant heathens are generally unwelcome in the Catholic houses."

"I still want you to know the invitation is open. I won't let those stodgy parishioners run off my dearest cousin." His face brightens with affection and something mischievous.

"I'm beginning to think you understand Anna Karenina more than you let on. You're willing to shun the whispers of fellow parishioners for the sake of your wayward cousin, all because you want to." She starts, feeling the blush rise higher on her cheeks at the near silky tone to his words. Was he purposefully trying to turn something innocent into something more…suggestive?

"Unlike Anna, my motive is born of the desire to help."

"I would contend that is still a selfish desire, for you will feel satisfied once you have completed the endeavor. So, in practice, you understand the concept?"

"I…yes, I suppose I do." He leans in over the arm of his rocker, his gaze smart and sure.

"Then, may I suggest tempering your desire to pass judgement too soon, darlin'. You might just be surprised." Her eyes widen, affronted by his implication. She wants to tell him he's wrong, to defend herself. But the truth in his eyes stills her tongue. He may be nineteen months younger than her 19 years of age but he seems significantly wiser in this moment.

It's the first of many moments with John Henry that will come to surprise her, but it's the moment she decides to make afternoon porch meetings a regular occurrence.

xxx

They fall into an easy rhythm. She's always waiting for him in the rocking chair, book in hand. And sure enough, she's always rewarded with his smile and rousing conversation.

" _John Henry, I declare! That's an outrageous claim against Mr. Carroll."_

" _I ask you, does_ _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ _really not read like the crazed ramblings of a laudanum fiend?"_

" _I think it's marvelously creative."_

" _Respectfully, my dear, I think you're marvelously delirious."_

" _Respectfully, dear cousin, I think you're marvelously unimaginative."_

Not two weeks later, he gifts her a small, hay-stuffed rabbit doll made of white canvas. Her words don't do the gratitude and affection in her heart justice. But in no time, she's made a vest for her rabbit and a small pocket-watch chain from an old necklace. She names him John.

" _Personally, Mattie, I consider it a tragedy."_

" _Tragedy? A horror, more appropriately. That would be beyond terrifying to find myself suddenly living under the ocean with a deranged captain. I don't even understand how a ship, like the Nautilus, can even sail fully under the water, much less exist."_

" _Perhaps she's out there now. It's unclear if Captain Nemo survived at the end."_

" _You'll give me nightmares, John Henry, please. To think of all the underwater horrors and a man unhinged by grief at the helm of such a powerful vessel out there right now…it makes me shiver. No man should be allowed to live as such."_

" _Where's your Christian charity? I do wonder, what do you do with a life after you lose everything you have ever wanted?"_

She's at the market the next day and purchases a sand dollar shell, thinking of him. She's embarrassed when she presents it to him – it's not directly related to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but it reminded her of him. He ends her ramblings with a one simple gesture.

His hand encloses hers and neither draws back. Their shared gaze betrays words already known by the heart that neither knows how to voice.

xxx

The heat is stifling on this Sunday afternoon and her fan is doing little to cool her flushed skin. The open windows serve to let the paltry breeze ruffle the sheet music and do little to ease the heat.

But she can't bring herself to care about the sweat soaking her underarms while listening to John Henry play. The bass notes of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' are so soulful under his slender fingers. He's masterful at the classics and has several pieces locked away in his memory.

His posture is straight and rigid but his fingers dance so fluidly over the keys. It's almost hypnotic to watch. She nods her head in time to the lulling melody, eyeing the pearl of moisture that drips from his hairline down his neck to disappear under his shirt collar. His suit jacket has been a victim of the heat, but his shirt sleeves still fully cover his arms and every button on his waistcoat is done up properly.

She smiles as the sonata draws to a close and he segues into one of Chopin's nocturnes. They have always been his favorite, he once told her. The lyrical treble clef notes singing over the rhythmic broken chords of the bass clef had suited his temperament during his formative years and still held true today.

And there was no denying the graceful beauty with which he made the piano sing Chopin's song. She wondered if he was thinking of his mother, who had taught him to play. This nocturne was particularly melancholy and drew to a subdued close.

"Those were lovely. I could listen to you play all day." His smile is modest as he rises, straightening his waistcoat.

"Such a flatterer, my dear. I thank you. But I do believe, it is now your turn."

"How can I possibly hope to entertain after such a performance?"

"You always manage." He offers a hand, gently helping her rise from the settee. Her dress is heavy with perspiration, her corset sticky and itchy as she moves. But she folds her fan, considers offering it to him to use and steps over to the piano.

She can't possibly hope to compete with his moody Beethoven and flashy Chopin, so she reaches for the hymnal. The music is tried'n true, and her fingers move through it with practiced swiftness and easy grace. Unlike his pieces, hers carry a lighter tone of reassurance and peace. It always bring her such joy to play such tunes.

Several hymns pour forth before she settles easily into the opening bars of 'Amazing Grace'. It's by far'n away her favorite and one that she committed to memory many years ago. The melody pours forth from within, her faith singing in every note, every phrase. Distantly, she registers shuffling movements behind her, casting a quick glance up to see him walking to the window, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. Concern stills her fingers over the keys.

"John Henry…? Please, are you well?" He stands stock still, his jaw clenched tight. His lack of response is worrying enough that she rises and walks over to him. He's lost to some internal struggle that plays in his eyes when his hand falls away. It makes her willing to do anything to keep that look from ever returning to his face.

"Forgive me. Your playing was lovely. I just…just haven't heard that hymn…." He stops, forcing a hard swallow as his eyes blink in quick succession. And suddenly she remembers Aunt Alice Jane's funeral.

"Oh, please – I'm sorry, I didn't think. I didn't mean to."

"Please, Mattie." His voice is a broken plea, his eyes raw with loss. "There's nothing to forgive." She doubts him but manages a weak smile in response.

She can't say why she does it. She just steps forward, wrapping her arms around him. She holds him to her, wishing him healing and saying silent prayers. His shirt and waistcoat are damp to the touch, but it's of little concern. Her heart warms to feel him return her hold, pulling her in tight against him. She wants him to know she's there for him, for the young man who misses his mother.

Her fingers rise to stroke the damp hair on the nape of his neck, just letting him hold her close. So close, it would surely create a scene should Mother or Father enter. But not even the threat of discovery is enough to make her draw away from him now. Her cheek presses against his, smiling and resisting the urge to giggle as his breath tickles her ear. It strikes her how close this is to a lover's embrace and she holds him tighter.

"Miss Mattie! That piano music better start up or I'm'a send for your mamma!" With wide eyes, startled by Ol' Nanna's call, they separate, afraid she'll actually push the parlor door fully open.

"Yes, Ol' Nanna. John Henry was just searching for a piece of music." She means the response to be reassuring, and she hopes she was convincing enough.

Neither dares to speak but he steps back, adjusting his sticky waistcoat. His eyes are sad and resigned when they meet hers. But without a word, he turns for the piano, his movements stiff and forced. She'd much rather still have him in her arms. The look on his face tells her he wants the same.

He starts another of Chopin's nocturnes, something slow and woeful. She settles back on the settee, raising her fan and hopes the music brings him some measure of peace.

xxx

She devoured The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. And what an adventure it was! Such a lovely tale of children doing what children do best. As a recommendation from him, it only endeared him further to her. But this afternoon would be fun. Now that she finally finished the novel, they could speak plainly about everything he'd been trying to tiptoe around for the past few days.

It's cloudy today, and the air is heavy with moisture. Ol' Nanna's been swearing by the ache in her bones that a wicked storm is brewing. Mattie hopes it's not true, but Ol' Nanna is seldom wrong. At the very least, she hopes it holds off long enough for her and John Henry to have their afternoon chat. She pulls the front door open, her smile unguarded as she recalls the exciting details of the final chapters – the cave chase, the discovery of gold. It reads like every boy's dream. She wonders at John Henry's dreams and reminds herself to ask.

But her smile falters at the prim form of her mother already seated in a rocking chair.

"Welcome, Mattie, dear. I was starting to wonder if Ol' Nanna's omens about the clouds would keep you and John Henry apart this afternoon."

"That's a bit much, mother. I don't doubt Ol' Nanna's right – she always is – but so long as we've a roof over our heads, I see no reason to alter our plans." Mother sighs, a pitying, worrying sound.

"The neighbors are all whispering. About you and John Henry. They see y'all out here every afternoon, laughin' and carryin' on. Father Lewis' wife has also been expressing concerns of inappropriate conduct regarding your association with the young man who doesn't attend mass."

"I've invited him to attend on several occasions. I've no intentions to press him if he's not of a mind to attend, and neither should you."

"That's for your uncle to address, dear. But it is my responsibility to ensure that you have your priorities in line, and frankly, these afternoons with John Henry are only hurting your stature. It's been a good while since a young gentleman came callin' on you. But Elliot Monroe has approached your father after mass on multiple occasions."

"Yes, I have spoken with Mr. Monroe myself on the matter." The brawny and brash young man enjoyed flashing his family's wealth around too much for Mattie's liking. She hadn't rebuked Mr. Monroe in full, but she was not receptive to his initial advances. It irked her when he'd just laughed her off and promised he'd win her over eventually. It was nearly as irksome as the proud smile on her mother's face right now.

"Well, now, that's exactly why Mr. Monroe is going to come calling on you tomorrow afternoon. It will do you good to get away from this porch and be seen with someone more befitting your status. You needn't spend all your time with John Henry – a nice young man, though he is, and it is heartwarming to see two cousins gettin' on so – but you need to be more concerned with settling your place in society. Marrying a suitable young man and starting a family."

Startling images of John Henry leap to her mind.

 _At the front of a church as she wears a white dress. Over her in bed with endless kisses. Teaching an auburn haired, green-eyed child to play piano._

Her heart clinches at the realization.

She wants her afternoons talking over novels, her afternoons of music. She wants…John Henry.

The thought is frightening. She doesn't even know how it happened. How had she fallen in love with him? Their time together was spent so innocently – she hadn't even been thinking of courting him. But it happened. Love – real, honest, exciting love found her. But with a man the church expressly forbid. A protestant and her first cousin.

Her chest is so tight, she nearly struggles to breathe. Her mother is staring at her expectantly. Perhaps she recognizes the torrent of realization crashing down around her daughter. Or maybe, she's just waiting for a response.

"Yes, you're right, I…. Very well." Mattie's voice is a mere shade of what it was. Gone is the blissfully ignorant happiness, replaced by stark reality. "I'll receive Mr. Monroe tomorrow afternoon. Thank you." Even in the wake of her uncertainty, her southern graces are unfailing.

"You should thank Mr. Monroe, dear. Without his steady patience, you wouldn't be fortunate to have the opportunity." She nods mutely, unsure what else to say. It is so much to understand all at once.

 _I love John Henry Holliday._

The rocking chair squeaks as her mother rises with a satisfied air, sniffing the air in disgust.

"It's getting damper out here. Do be careful not to catch a chill. It wouldn't do to make the young Mr. Monroe fall ill." The door closes behind her mother, leaving her alone to her realization.

A low rumble of thunder doesn't keep the peace for long and it's quickly followed by another.

She abandons the porch, returning to the house and retreating to her room. Only a few tears are shed before she falls into prayer. She asks for wisdom, for forgiveness, for strength.

Hours pass and silence reigns.

She begs off dinner with a headache and falls asleep, resigned to her new course of action.

They never do discuss the adventures of precocious Tom and scrappy Huckleberry.

xxx

The piano is silent over the next few weeks. The porch rockers are untouched.

Mr. Monroe comes calling four times and her parents couldn't be more pleased.

She still smiles and she still laughs. For all the world, she tries to appear as unchanged as any day. But John Henry's eyes always cut right through her.

She's refused to be alone with him under any circumstances, so they have not spoken more than a few pleasantries to each other. If the rest of the family notices, they maintain proper decorum by not speaking of it. His tone is always civil, but his eyes are angry, hurt, judging. She hates how they make her feel. It smacks of cowardice, but more than that she understands feeding her budding feelings will only lead to more heartache.

As if the constant tightness in her chest isn't enough these days, but there is no outcome for any sort of future she could hope to have with him. If her feelings are even mutual. Somehow that thought is more painful than not being around him, even though he's so close.

The chicken, though deliciously cooked, is not agreeing with her tonight. Her father's on his pedestal about the Yankees in town and John Henry is seated directly across from her. She can't escape his gaze even though she pointedly does not look at him. She reaches for her wine, hoping it will help. The lack of relief is disappointing. She can only hope she's eaten enough to be excused.

"—And the lazy mayor won't lift a finger to stop it. Mark my words, this town'll go the way of the devil if the Yankees have their way."

"Lord, protect us." Mother crosses herself in a swift prayer.

"Please, pardon me –I don't meant to interrupt. I'm afraid I'm feeling poorly this evening and should like to retire early." Mattie offers an apologetic smile to both her parents.

"Heavens, Mattie, I'm worried to hear, child. May I bring you some tea? Or soup?" Mother looks to rise, to start gathering a tray, but Mattie stills her with a shake of her head.

"No, thank you, mother. Rest is all I need." Rest and escape from the young man across the table who can't stop staring at her with such concern in his eyes. "I expect I'll feel fit as a fiddle in the morning."

"Very well," Father's only mildly interested, "remember your prayers." He looks abruptly to the other side of the table as she rises. "John Henry, do tell us of the Yankees in Valdosta."

She tries not to listen to his voice as she moves from the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It only serves as a continual reminder how much she misses him. The hallway is only lit with a single lamp but the moon is brilliant out tonight and the curtains have been left open.

The moon shining on the veneer of piano catches her eye in the parlor. It's been so long since she played. She offered to play for Elliot last week, but he had no interest. If she marries him, would he even let her have a piano?

Absently, she strolls into the parlor, closing the door behind her. The family won't find her in here at this hour. She runs her fingers along the cool wood as the memories of warm Sunday afternoons and music and a tender embrace overwhelm her. The accompanying shame is something she's learned over the last few weeks. It's a suitable punishment for such sinful thoughts.

She abandons the piano, dropping to her knees in front of the window bench, folding her hands and bowing her head. She prays for merciful forgiveness and peace from her turmoil. She doesn't know how much time passes but the soft click of the door handle nearly stops her heart. Her silent words are forgotten as she turns, afraid of being caught. Her stomach drops to see him standing there with an equally surprised look on his face.

"I…I was just leaving." She stammers the words out, blood pounding in her ears with the need to retreat.

"I'd appreciate it greatly if you didn't lie to me, Mattie." His words have every right to carry the anger he conceals in his eyes, but his words are achingly despondent. The more she stares at him in the moonlight, the more she supposes he deserves to hear the truth.

"You're right. Please accept my apology – I'm sorry." Her hands fall to her lap from where she kneels on the floor, her head dropping. "I am sorry for so much." His footsteps are soft against the heavy carpet, and he knows where to step to avoid the creaky floorboards.

"What's happened, Mattie?" She feels him come to stand beside her, not kneeling or reaching out to her. "Why are you here?" She breathes a deep breath, looking up to meet his downward gaze.

"I realized I was….that we were spending too much time together. You're only going to leave in three weeks and I didn't…" The words just aren't there for her to continue. She won't lie to him, but she doesn't trust herself to voice the truth.

"Please, darlin'," he coaxes gently, sidestepping her form to sit on the window bench, "you don't need to stay kneeling." He extends a slender hand and she easily accepts it, rising to sit next to him. It's the closest they've been in as many weeks and her body warms at the contact of his hand. His thumb sweeps in light gentle strokes over her knuckles. She can't help but smile at the flutter it stirs in her heart. "Please, won't you tell me?" His voice is a low rumble that turn her bones to honey. "I miss you more than I've missed anyone." Tears threaten her composure and she focuses on their conjoined hands to distract her.

"I know. Please, believe me, I know how you feel. It is with me every day. And I wish….dear lord, how I wish…." She turns her gaze from their hands up to the windows behind them, her eyes closing in a brief, desperate plea. The moon is shining brightly though the panes with the occasional star visible around its luminous glow. "Have you read the nursery rhymes? 'Starlight, star bright; first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might; have this wish I make tonight'." The rest of her words form a silent prayer around her closed-lip smile.

 _I wish we could be together – if we weren't cousins, if the church allowed it – always and forever._

"You didn't finish." The warm amusement on his voice harkens back to the forgotten afternoons on the breezy porch.

"No, I…I just don't want to spoil it." She can't help but tease in response. It comes so naturally and easily around him.

"You sprite, taunting me like this." He seems impossibly close, the moonlight alight in his green eyes. "If it were my wish, I'd share it with you. I don't want any secrets, ever again."

She can't bring herself to say anything. Somehow, words don't seem appropriate. Her heart is pounding so loudly, she wonders if he can hear it. Slowly, torturously, they share a breath and another, the intimacy of it so shocking and perfect.

He's so close now, his breath, the scent of whiskey caramel on her cheek and the first press of his lips is unsure, clumsy. It makes her heart full to bursting. The second touch is longer, more fulfilling. She presses back, every nerve-ending alight in recognition of him. The glide of his lips on hers is decadent and heady, and it's all too easy for her lips to part, to taste his tongue on hers. A moan wrenches from deep within her as primal heat sparks in her core. She never imagined it would feel like this.

His hold shifts until they slot together, her chest firmly against his waistcoat and wool jacket. The answering groan that rumbles his chest sets off an ache that makes her press closer into him. She's so desperate for more, to chase these feelings with him.

It's only when she realizes she can't breathe that they part their lips, gasping for air as if drowning. It's an exhilarating feeling to have every part of her calling out for this man. It frightens her how much she wants to give herself to him, in spite of everything moral and religious she was raised to believe. And perhaps, if his kisses returned, she could lose herself and draw him down to let nature run its course.

"Oh, John…," she breathes the words at length, "what were we about to do?" Was he as willing to succumb as she? The answer is in the smile on his face, the light in his eyes.

"Love each other." He makes it sound so simple.

"I already do – I love you." Her confession lifts a weight from her shoulders. Denying the truth for so long has only made them both miserable. Why should they suffer so? Surely if God was against such a relationship, he wouldn't have given her these feelings for John.

"Oh, Mattie…," his smile widens out, the heaviness of the last weeks vanishing, "that's all I've wanted to hear you say. I loved you in that first afternoon – you were so perfect sitting there. I want to come home to that site every day for the rest of my life." The thought wells tears in her eyes. It fits with everything she wants – a life with him, forever. She lets herself fall into his embrace, each just holding the other. In this moment, the world is theirs to conquer. But just outside the parlor doors lies everything to tear them apart.

"What do we do now?" She has to ask, her voice soft against his jacket. He never answers her, but as his fingers stroke through her curls and she listens to the steady beat of his heart, the drowsier she becomes and the less she worries.

xxx

When she finally lays down to sleep that night, she dreams of him. Feverish and full of want, the images stay with her long after she wakes midmorning. She knows she should be ashamed and disgusted, but she can't stop wondering at the touch of his fingers, his mouth trailing the curves of her breasts, the slide of his body inside her. Last night's kiss had brought such relief after denying herself his closeness. And yes, she was far from satisfied, but her thirst has been tempered.

Part of her can't help but wonder if God sent him to her on purpose, her own personal angel of mercy and serpent of temptation in one.

Her breakfast tray came and went as all the while she mulls over what the day would yield. Neither one could go to her parents and ask for a blessing or permission. Could they elope far enough away under assumed names where no one would know their blood relation? Could she honestly let herself live that lie to God and her follow man? None of the options were uplifting, and none compared to how she felt with him, in his arms.

Whatever the outcome, she knows it won't be solved this morning in her bedroom. With a final sip of tea after Ol' Nanna's departure, she descends the stairs for the parlor.

It's simply been too long. She lifts the lid and the ivory keys greet her like old friends. At first, her fingers stumble over a few errant notes in her scales. But before long they remember and familiar hymns pour forth. She even starts on one of his Chopin nocturnes. She can't help but smile, recalling the last time she played it and the proud approval on his face.

"How dare you, child?" The voice is low, tight with anger and utterly disapproving over the piano notes. Mattie's hands fall from the keys, turning in surprise to see Mother, stern and imposing, at her side.

"How dare I? I'm afraid I don't—." The sharp slap across her cheek stops her words with a shocked gasp.

"That's the second time you've lied to me since dinner yester evenin', and God only knows what other sins you committed in between." Mattie's eyes widen to saucers as cold shivers race down her spine.

"Lies? No, I…I left the dining room. I came in here to my say my prayers."

"Blasphemy, child. Covering up your sins with John Henry by making false claims of spiritual devotion…I know you were raised better than that." Mother's face turns sad, heartbroken. "Of all my children, I was so sure you were the strongest, the most pious. If I had known it would take your younger cousin from Valdosta to send you down the path of a harlot, I would have refused him in my home."

"Mother, please." She's desperate to explain.

"No, Martha Ann. I saw your empty beds last night. I'm not blind – young love is easy to recognize but you can't let yourself be swept away by it. It will forever ruin your life. You may have already done irreparable damage to your soul, but I won't let you bring scandal upon this house."

"How else can I plainly say it?" She looks pleadingly to Mother, trying to figure how to reach her. "There's no scandal."

"Your lies are only compounding your sin. Do you deny that you were out of bed late?"

"No." She dreads the next question.

"Do you deny that you were with John Henry, unchaperoned, at that late hour?"

"No." The look of utter dejection on her mother's face silences after further protests. All at once, she knows there's nothing she can say to redeem herself. Her mother's already condemned her and somehow, the condemnation isn't a complete surprise. What else could she expect in response to tasting forbidden fruit?

"Arrangements have already been made. Mrs. Lewis will see you safely relocated to support charity efforts for the unfortunate victims of the war. A noble charge for a young, saintly woman. No one need know of your late night indiscretion." Mother takes a step closer, her eyes narrowing. "And God help you should your belly swell with evidence of your sin." She can't stop the tears that roll down her cheeks.

Being sent to live in the country is the ultimate dismissal. She knows her mother will never receive or embrace her properly again. Everyone will whisper as to the real reason for her departure. Young women are only removed from family homes before marriage to hide indiscretions, regardless of the formally and publicly stated reasons. Even her word of innocence isn't enough to save her. Maybe that's why it stings so. But that's not the worst of it – this is the ultimate end for her love that yearns to have John Henry always in her life.

"Mrs. Lewis will be here presently," Mother steps away, moving for the door as a dismissal. "Pack modestly. And remember, if you show true Christian charity, the Almighty Father may see to your forgiveness. Now, I expect you up those stairs after I leave."

It's with numb detachment that her feet carry her from the parlor upstairs to gather belongings.

She wonders as she sniffles through silent tears if it's better this way. Maybe this is her path to salvation and atonement. But the ache that takes root in her chest tells her it won't be that easy.

She leaves in the Lewis' carriage without another word to her family.

Four months later, she summons the courage to write him at his father's house in Valdosta when she knows he's back at school. She tells him of her plans as Sister Mary Melanie at the Sisters of Mercy Convent.

She doesn't see the lone tear stain his cheek, nor feel the heat from the fire that turns her written words to ash. But she understands the heartbreak that consumes him.

Stay tuned for _Part II: Grace Willis, Summer of 1880_. Unfortunately, it may be a short wait. But I am excited to finish!


	2. Part II: Grace Willis

As promised, the end. Thanks y'all!

 **Memories of Summer**

 _Part II: Grace Willis, Summer of 1880_

Frizzy auburn curls catch in the breeze as it accompanies the patrons through the door. Tired green eyes sit above a charming smile as she sidles up next to the latest arrival. He's easily interested in what she's selling, but they all are. It's what they're here for. And the Bee Hive is buzzing tonight.

With the latest railroad arrival had come the replacement whiskey stores that were sorely needed for all the saloons along Monty Street. It caused a big hoopla at the station and the celebrations carried down Main Street as the delivery wagon rolled in. Proprietor Pete and Mother Mary were overjoyed at the inventory, and they wouldn't have it said their cups didn't overflow, their girls weren't friendly and their cards weren't fast. And plenty of men could attest to all three.

In the beginning, it surprised her how pliable a man could get with a few strong drinks and a well-timed smile. It took some learning from the other girls, and a series of nasty black eyes before she completely let go her religious upbringing to live this life. But ever since she'd landed at the Bee Hive, half flea-eaten, starving and desperate after her husband's death, she'd never been hungry.

"Howdy, cowboy. What brings you in tonight?"

"Evenin', handsome. You've come to just the right place."

"Well, hello stranger. You look sorely in need of a drink."

The lines are a dime a dozen when working the front door. Mother Mary insists each man be welcome with a big smile and someone to show them to the vice of their choice. If Grace is being truthful, she enjoys working the door. It affords her the best chance to find the best partner for the evening. And it isn't always easy pickin'. Cowboy after dude after tub after dandy parade through the doors, each wanting special attention. Some faces seem familiar, some are handsome and some are uglier'n sin. But this one here? He isn't all that terrible to look at, and he smells of strong cake soap. He wears the still-dusty duds of a roving cattleman, his hands rough and callused to match.

"Come now, honeybee, why don't you stay and share some o' your sweet honey?" His face is full of hope, his hand resting low on her back, sliding lower to cup the curve of her backside. A hootin' whistle rises from the poker table they stop at and she loosely withdraws from him, her smile never wavering.

"Aren't you afraid of gettin' stung?" She tilts her head with a teasing smile, drawing a cigarette from the strap of her dress.

"Damn gurl, I bet you're somethin'." The man grins, wide and lusty, eyes glued to her cleavage as she bends forward for a light.

"It'll cost you to find out." He easily lights a match found within his dusty clothes, watching the cigarette poised perfectly between her lips as she inhales.

"I'm sure you're worth it." She blows him a playful face of smoke in response to the compliment, her lips curling to a teasing smile.

"You know I am. I'll see you later, stranger." With a fun wink, she moves back through the tables for the door, taking another pull of her cigarette. So far, he seems her best prospect for the evening but she'll have to keep an eye on his poker game. Mother Mary's Bee Hive girls are worth a fair penny and many men had spent all they had at the tables, finding themselves woefully out of luck later in the evening.

But for now, it's early still and many more customers were sure to come waltzing through that door. Like this next one. She'd learned to watch the window for the moving shadows as she'd long given up trying to discern footsteps on the porch over the din of the saloon. And, oh my, this one is certainly a looker. In the time it takes her to loop her arm through his, she can't help but notice the neatly-trimmed mustache, and the flash of gold brocade under his black jacket.

"Evenin', stranger." His green eyes are unbelievably sharp, his mouth set in a thin, displeased line to meet her best smile.

"I'll thank you kindly not to arrest my person." His voice drips with southern syrup and he's free of her arm in a surprising flash of gentile movement.

"I meant no offense, please – you're here to have fun, ain't ya?" She falters on the end of her words, confused by how conflicted his eyes become. At first, it smacks of disbelief, maybe even recognition. But she knows that can't be right – she would remember a man like this sharp-dressed consumptive in front of her. "You alright, fella? You look like you seen a ghost."

"A perceptive choice of words," his tone is dismissive, the line of his jaw tight, "now, if you will pardon me. It's not your company I'm interested in this evenin'." He turns from her without another word or glance and moves seamlessly through the tables, leaving her just standing there.

She can't help but feel the sting to her pride. Spending an evening with a man as good looking and obviously moneyed as him would have been a real treat, and he just brushed her aside like an unwanted fly. There is something remarkably predatory in his casual stance, in his unassuming slenderness. She watches him approach a table and effortlessly join the game, seemingly unaware of her continued gaze.

While devastatingly handsome, the pallor of his skin is telling. Ashen. So white, it's nearly transparent, especially around the eyes. It's even more striking just how pale his lips really are. She'd seen consumption eat men from the inside, leaving them thin wisps of walking specters until their dying breath. It's a shame that it's happening to someone so good looking.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she turns back for the door to do her job and tries not to keep staring. She really does. It isn't becoming and the other customers will notice. But as the consumptive's game starts and his hands come to life, she can't stop. Such long, elegant fingers on a man. They look smooth at this distance, but surely they bear the calluses of his life. Card dealer? Absolutely. Horses? Probably not. Gunslinger? She blinks away from him, unable to decide and offering a sideways smile to the latest arrival. Most men worth their salt at the gaming tables are prepared to kill in defense of their honor, so why shouldn't he?

But, good lord, the grace with which he holds his cigarette and the mesmerizing ease with which he rolls coins between his knuckles is disarming. Heat flares in her blood imagining those hands on her person. It's been a dog's age since a hand, other than her own, had brought her to completion. But, _oh_ , his hands would surely be marvelous at the task. Teasing, both in and out. Her breath pitching faster. Clinging to his ashen frame. Her body riding waves of release around his fingers, buried deep.

Her cheeks flame something fierce in her wanton musings. Her chest rises and falls with rapid, subconscious breaths.

When was the last time she had wanted so strongly?

She stops just short of returning to the door, appalled and forcing herself out of her fantasy. Wanting isn't a luxury she can afford with this job. Selfish desires of her own would only lead to one career-damning move. Saying "no".

She turns for the bar, desperately in need of a drink. Fortunately, Proprietor Pete is close at hand and slides a glass of whiskey her way as she pushes coins forward. The alcohol burns her throat in the best way. A welcome distraction as she does her best to forget the heat threatening to soften and wet her core at the thought of the man across the floor. The last slug of whiskey is the perfect dose of her reality.

A whore. A prostitute. The life she chose in lieu of starvation and homelessness.

"Now I ain't gonna pretend that my feelins' ain't hurt, little lady," she turns quickly to see the roving cattleman from earlier now standing alongside her, straddling a stool, "but I noticed that other fella didn't buy you a drink."

"No, he has other pursuits on his mind tonight." Unbidden her eyes flit over to the southern gentleman – his eyes studying his cards, his face neutral and a coin lazily strolling back and forth along his knuckles. It's almost hypnotizing. But the sudden press of a meaty finger to her chin, turning her back, jars her focus.

"Forget that dandy. Let me show you what a real man can give you." She's not sure she wants to forget the man across the way. Nor, is she really interested in what this man here can give her. Her stomach rots at the realization she wants and cannot have what she wants. She hates herself for it because she damn well _knows_ better.

"Is that a promise?" She summons a flirty tone and a coquettish smile. The arrogant satisfaction that fills his face is nauseating.

"You'll soon find out, honey. Barkeep!" With a quick exchange, the cattleman presses a cup of the cheap brandy to her hand, hefting his own drink. "To you."

"To us." The burn of the brandy ignites her throat. She misses her whiskey but draws a breath to cool the fire, angling away from the bar for a hearty exhale.

She can't help but see him in the corner of her eye.

Strong fingers seize her jaw, squeezing fierce enough to wrench a whimper from her lips. He jerks her neck roughly to pull her in, to pull her close, his whiskey laden breath foul against her cheeks.

"Listen here, whore," the grip on her face tightens, "I'm paying damn good money for your attention, not so you can wet yourself over some fop. I will stuff you as hard as it takes to stop you from thinking about him until I come all over you. And I fucking get what I pay for."

"You misunderst—!" Her words stop short on a wincing whimper as his hand impossibly squeezes her jaw until she's sure it will break. "I—yes, sir." The words choke out around his vice grip, a gasp tearing from her as he forcefully releases her. She rolls her jaw in its hinge, gently cradling the abused skin. She hopes it won't bruise.

"Sir…oh, I like that 'un. How 'bout you just call me that from now on?" His voice drops to a husky timbre, his eyes darkening hungrily. He isn't the first one to make that request. Those nights end up being her least favorite.

"Yes, sir." She offers a weak smile, resignation settling in.

"Good gurl, now, let's get us along." He straightens off the stool, pressing his thick fingers into her waist to drag her off the stool. She falls into him, more than a little wary to be alone with him. But she wants to know if the southern gentleman sees her, wants to see if he shows any sort of response. If she could just sneak a glance.

But she doesn't. With a hammering heart and shaky legs, she just allows Sir to guide her towards the stairs and up to her room.

xxx

The door slams shut behind him, leaving her alone, and she can't yet bring herself to move. Not two years ago, she would already be curled into herself, crying softly into the soiled sheets. But now…now, she just lays there, staring at the ceiling.

She supposes it could have been worse. Her jaw still rolls in its hinge despite the ache and her nose stopped bleeding. His slap had caught her completely by surprise as it stole the breath from her lungs and rendered her stupid for a few minutes. And those minutes were all it took.

Heaving a sigh, she rolls off the bed, desperately in need of a drink. She steps over to her vanity and pulls a long white nightgown from the top drawer as she reaches for her washbasin cloth. The trail of blood down her face is just visible in the spotty mirror with the low light and she gently touches the tender skin, wincing. The bruise hasn't shown yet, but it will be in full bloom by tomorrow. With gentle touches, she washes the blood away and runs the cloth between her legs before sliding the nightgown overhead.

She reaches for the doorknob and her robe hefty with the weight of coins in the same movement. Sometimes, some of the other girls have returned to the bar for a drink afterwards. But it doesn't look like she'll have any company tonight. She sniffles against the pain in her nose as she ties the silk robe, kimino or kimono or some such, around her waist. It's easily the nicest thing she's ever owned and she'd always found it comforting, even if she can't remember what it's properly called.

There are a few patrons left at the gaming tables, huddled in quiet groups, locked in serious play. It was only the diehard players who stayed out until this late hour and fortunately, Mother Mary didn't care what her girls did afterwards. She descends the stairs without drawing obvious attention. With her hair down and covered up in her robe, there isn't much for the men to salivate over. It's a nice change from business as usual.

"Evenin', Grace. You look a little roughed up." She offers a weak smile to Proprietor Pete as he ambles up behind the bar. He's always been a big fella, but she marvels at how quickly he commands the bar during peak times.

"Oh, I'm alright. I would take a bourbon, if you got." The correct amount of coins is easily retrieved from her pocket and they land with a clink against the solid bar top. She steps forward and eases onto the closest barstool, trying and failing to hide a wince. But the sight of Pete pouring the bourbon is a welcome one and after his gruff hand pushes the full glass forward, he draws back with her coins.

She's always thought it a load of shit that the girls have to pay for their booze, but she can't bring herself to complain about it. She remembers the days of maddening hunger all too well to risk anything. But surely a solid hit to the face had to qualify for a discount at least.

She reaches forward for her drink, drawing it back for a deep inhale of the alcoholic vapor. It burns the hairs of her nose, but it's a welcome relief from the throbbing soreness. Mother Mary won't be pleased to see her in the morning and it will make working tomorrow night so much harder. No man wants to be reminded of anything from another man, to have her profession flaunted so visibly. But there was nothing for it – only paint and powder. But that would come tomorrow.

The glass touches her lips and she drains it all in one gulp. The rush and fire in her throat is perfect. Her eyes sink closed in bliss as her head falls forward, drawing a deep breath.

"I've hear tell its bad luck to drink alone, but I don't own in all for it, myself." The gentile, honeyed tones are a pleasant surprise. With sluggish movements, she turns and the sight of him is pure tonic. He's shed his suit jacket and the fine, gold brocade of his vest is on full display. It plays nice with the sandy coloring of his hair in the light.

"Even if I were to stop now, I don't think it would be enough to cause a reversal of my fortunes." Her lips curl to a thin, wry smile. She doesn't want to make the effort for bravado and playfulness right now. If that's what he's looking for, he'll just have to come back tomorrow. But as she watches his sharp, if slightly unfocused, eyes linger on her face, she's not sure what he wants.

His brow creases in concern as he continues to take her in. Her cheeks flush, unbidden, hoping she didn't miss something incriminating on her face.

"Evenin', Doc. Up for another?" Proprietor Pete's voice cuts between them, startling the man – Doc's – attention.

"Ah, Peter, just the man I was after. A bourbon, please. And the lady's choice." Her smile fills out under the kind offer.

"I'll have the same, Pete." With a grunt and nod, Pete produces the cups and pours the amber liquid. She pulls her cup back, trailing her fingers around the rim to avoid looking back at Doc. She isn't sure she wants to know what he saw on her face.

"So, Doc?" It's strangely fitting for this man. "Is that what you are? A doctor?" She turns to him at length, watching his lips quirk with distant memory.

"A dentist, once upon a time." His pale profile is striking up close, and there's visible dexterity in his slender fingers as they hold his cup.

"And now you're here." A light cough rattles past his lips before he takes another drink.

"Indeed. And you are, too."

"I wish I had something so grand in my past before I ended up here." She takes a long drink. "Why did you stop being a dentist?" He coughs again, a wet sound, and drains the rest of his drink. "I'm sorry for asking, if I shouldn't…." She isn't sure if he was avoiding her question, but she felt the need to apologize. It was awfully forward of her to ask. But it's such an ungodly hour and the liquor is starting to seep into her brain.

"That's a story for another time." She's disappointed by his answer, but she still offers him a small smile over her drink.

"Well, thank you for the drink, Doc. I'm in debt to you."

"No debt, darlin'. It's obvious you've had a rough go."

"Is it?" She can't stop from asking, her eyes nervously wide. If wounds are already starting to show, that doesn't bode well for tomorrow.

"Your face is lookin' a little raw, and he bloodied your nose." He turned towards the bar, flagging down Pete with a wave of his empty cup. "Was he jealous?" A blush flames on her cheeks.

"Jealous…? Of what?" He nods a silent thanks to Pete after his cup is refilled, turning back to her with a cool, wise gaze.

"That he was not the man you wanted in your bed tonight." A spark bursts to life in her gut at the silky, positively indecent slant to his words.

"I…I don't have the luxury of wanting to choose my bedmate."

"But you're still a woman with her own hot blooded desires." She didn't think it was possible for her cheeks to burn so red. "You weren't exactly being subtle." Her mind stumbles over his words. He…he wasn't watching her earlier, was he? Every time she looked over, he was engrossed in his cards. How had he…?

"I didn't think you were watching." A smile lights his face, amusement in his eyes. It's a good look for him.

"I'm flattered, darlin'."

"Holliday, ya basterd – fuck her already or git yer ass back here. We got's a game to finish."

"Such rudeness," he shakes his head with a wry smile before turning towards his tablemates, "I'll be with you presently." He raises his cup in their direction before tilting it back. She can't help but watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows. "You should have this." Her brow furrows as he sets his cup to the bar and reaches in his waistcoat pocket. A smile warms her face as he produces a pristine, white handkerchief, and hands it to her. "Take care of yourself." His parting smile is almost mischievous, playful even, as he taps his right index finger against the side of his nose.

She holds the handkerchief close to her chest as she watches him return to his game with a fond smile. The want from earlier is thrumming low in her blood and the reality aches in her chest. But for now, she just turns back to the bar, swiping the handkerchief down along both sides of her nose.

Dismay and embarrassment flood her face at the red streaks staining the white cloth.

xxx

She's all painted up by opening time the next day. The coloring from the bruises is muted, but nothing can hide the swelling. Mother Mary just thickens the lines of kohl around her eyes, hoping to detract attention from her puffy cheeks. The powder does some good to smooth out the lines of her face, blurring it all together, but she hardly recognizes herself.

The bruises on her inner thighs are easier to disguise but far tenderer. She knows it won't be easy to hide the winces tonight. Maybe she'll get lucky and get a young fop who doesn't really know how to use a woman. Its wishful thinking as the sun slides down the horizon and the saloon continues to fill. There's music, laughter, cussin' and cards. No reason for it to be any different. But then she hears Millie's glee over the din.

"Well, Mr. Holliday – I do declare you're a sight this evenin'."

His response is far more subdued and befitting a crowded room. When she chances a glance over, Millie's hanging off his arm, selling what she has to offer, though he looks distinctly displeased. It's oddly gratifying that Doc still isn't interested in buying, no matter the seller.

She turns away from them, resolved not to lose herself like last night. She can't afford to. She knows it won't be too much longer before she needs to take care of her customer. This young man here is certainly trying for all he's worth.

He's cute, in a very innocent sort of way. It's easy for him to exaggerate his stories about cattle herding but she won't tell him she knows better. The mindless focus on another person is a welcome distraction. She laughs because he's generally amusing. He would probably be fun to bed, and then he asks her. His smile falls as she explains how it works for her. It's endearing how bright red he flushes and heavy his eyes become when he can't produce enough coin. With a kind smile and gentle apology, she wishes him well as he slides off the stool to nurse his pride. The innocence of youth is something she can't help but marvel at. And wonder how she so lost her way.

"You should be thankful. He's too young for you." She turns over her shoulder to see Doc standing with a bemused grin on his face, pewter cup firmly in hand.

"You say that, but youth has its advantages." She's not sure how much further she should push this familiar air with him, but what did she really have to lose. "Youth are teachable…and the closest I get to a night off." That line catches his attention, the smile falling from his face as he moves in closer to the unoccupied stool. He studies her with the same intensity as last night, though this time, she knows there's no blood on her face.

"What have they done to you, darlin'?"

"Maybe it's just the light?" She knows better than to admit the truth of her face and the concealing layers. He saw it for himself last night. He has to know.

"I'd kindly appreciate if you wouldn't lie to me. It's rather insultin'." Her cheeks flame beneath the thick powder.

"Please, forgive me. I don't wish to offend you, of all people."

"My skin's thicker than it looks." He signals a polite gesture to Pete, ordering another bourbon. She follows the continued movement of his hand into his black suit jacket, bringing forth a slim, silver case. Inside lays neat rows of cigarettes and matches.

"May I?" His brow lifts in surprise at her words but he extends the case. She plucks a cigarette to match his, leaning in towards the lit, proffered match. Puffs of smoke rise around them, the flavor invading her senses in a welcome fog. He takes an effortless drag, exhaling the smoke in shallow draft.

"May I ask you a…a rather forward question?" She hates that she hesitates, but brings herself to meet his intrigued gaze.

"You may."

"Does the smoke not hurt you?...Your lungs?" He levels her with a hard stare, weariness lifting his lips in a tired grin.

"I knew you were a clever one. And, no, the smoke, I find, rather agrees with the wasting state of my physical person." Instinct compels her to apologize but she inhales her cigarette instead.

"I'm glad it doesn't pain you." A wry chuckle that might have been a disguised cough warms his eyes.

"Well, I didn't quite say that, darlin'."

"No, but I wouldn't—." She stops, unable to believe her audacity. _Wouldn't want to see you in pain_. It's so familiar and she was so close to saying it aloud. Silence reigns between them as the din rumbles on around them. Licking her lips nervously, she glances to him finding his gaze strong.

"Don't stop on my account." She follows the movement of his cigarette, the purse of his lips.

"Aw shucks, you don't want to listen to silly ol' me. Especially if you're holding up a game."

"I asked you kindly not to lie once already." Something unspoken smolders in his eyes and she feels her breathing pick up. If he continues to regard her as such, she knows she'll do something foolish. Kiss him. Ask him upstairs. Instead she wraps her lips around her cigarette for a deep pull. He doesn't miss the passably concealed wince that still manages to wrinkle her eyes.

"How bad?" His voice is so soft, so soothing in its drawl.

"Bad 'nuff." It's as honest an answer as she can give. After all, no man wants to be reminded of her previous partners. He looks conflicted but takes a silent pull of his cigarette. "It wasn't—." She shakes her head, decides to start over, hating that she sounds like she's complaining. "I'm not—."

"Come take the air with me." The words, though gently phrased, are not a suggestion and she rises. He's still a customer, after all, and with one word to Mother Mary, he could end everything for her.

Slowly, they thread through the boisterous crowd, leaving clouds of smoke in their wake. She draws one large, last, suddenly nervous, inhale as she finishes the cigarette before stepping out into the cooling night air. It hadn't rained in a few days, and dust is heavy in the air as the breeze blows down the street. But those wiser than her had said the rains were a'comin'.

Doc comes to a stop next to the porch railing and she steps close to his side, watching him inhale and toss away the cigarette remains. The distant glow from the saloon lights his face in such an appealing way and makes his green eyes shine. It is all too easy to let her guard down and shown genuine attraction towards this man. No previous customer had ever been so easy. But when he meets her gaze, something pained blooms on his face. She suddenly wants to know, to understand what it is. She licks her lips uncertainly, smiling softly.

"What is it?" She has to ask, noticing the tightening of his lips. "Is it…do I remind you of someone?" The forced swallow and obvious diversion of his eyes is all the answer she needs. She can't deny the pang in her heart to know it isn't genuine affection on his end in return, but she has no right to expect it. He certainly isn't the first to be interested in her because she reminds him of someone else.

"What's her name?" She watches his gaze snap back to hers, a resigned determination ablaze in his sharp features.

"None of that now, darlin'. What is your name?"

"Grace." His lips quirk under his neat mustache.

"Well, Miss Grace, at last." She returns his smirk.

"Charmed, Doc Holliday." There's a flirty lightness to her words that hasn't been with her all night. She soaks up his attention under his eyes that seem to be learning everything about her. She longs to ask him upstairs, but she's not allowed to make the offer. She can only hope she doesn't look too desperate, despite the desire that stirs like butterflies in her stomach. His hand rises to her cheek, gently swiping across the thick layers of paint and powder. His mouth curls in disgust as he rubs his soiled finger to his thumb.

"While I enjoy the finer touches of life, this is too much." Her brow furrows, trying to discern his meaning. He can't really want to see her without…. Can he?

"But, my face, the other marks…you can't possibly want—isn't it better this way?" Her playful tone is forced and stilted until she waits on silent, baited breath.

"I saw you last night, as you were. And what I saw…powder doesn't hide that now." She swallows nervously, anticipation tight in her throat.

"Does that mean—?"

"Yes, if you'll be so kind." His hand rises to gently rest against her hip, turning her towards the door and urging her to step forward.

It's the longest, slowest, most heart-wrenching walk of her life. She knows the path by absent memory, but the lingering warmth and solidity of his hand on her side is all too promising. She doesn't care to check in with anyone, doesn't care if someone is looking for her. This man is hers for tonight.

Her door closes with its usual squeak behind him. Her heart is racing to have him here, so close, so alone. She stoops to light the bedside lantern, casting a soft glow about her room. He coughs softly, a wet, raspy sound that dissolves almost as suddenly as it came on. She turns back to him with a smile, meeting the revulsion wrinkling his eyes.

"Now, wash that paint off. All of it, mind." Her smile drops, resigning herself to his request. Fear dulls her excitement at thought that he could recoil at the sight of her.

"Alright." It's a few steps to her washbasin and pitcher, the clunk of her heels on the wood floor deafening against the pounding blood in her ears. She doesn't understand why she's so nervous. He's just a man, like the dozens of others she encountered in this line of work. Only…only she knows that's not true.

Once the cloth is wet in her hand, she draws a deep breath before pressing the damp fabric to her cheek. Slowly, the layers of paint and powder wipe away, revealing the black and blue mottled skin beneath. She hears rustling behind her – the whisper of fabric, the clink of metal and a dull, gentle thud. She does her best to ignore it as she reaches for the hem of her dress, fighting to swallow an overwhelming sense of modesty. Her cheeks flame as she reaches up and slides the cloth along her inner thighs, smudging the paint and powder there. She can't help but wince and hope he doesn't see it. With a final wipe, she eases her dress back down, dropping the cloth loosely to her washbasin.

She turns back to him, finding his scrutiny of her unnerving. As if he could see straight through everything about her. His eyes are impossibly dark from where she stands and she can't even begin to know what he's thinking. But then she notices the glint of the soft light off a sharp knife blade that rests atop his discarded pistols. Her heartbeat ratchets up a notch and her throat dries to match.

"I hope this satisfies you." She also hopes her words come out even, but she doesn't trust her judgement right now.

"Come closer." Her breath comes in quick, anxious draws at his request as she moves. She stops just in front of him as he stands, still in front of the door, the scent of smoke, bourbon and musk lingering about his person. It's a heady combination, especially when coupled with his intense appraisal of her bruised face. His skin looks impossibly pale in the low light, his lips a color that tell of death yet still alive with temptation. But something in his face starts to shift.

It creeps into the corners of his eyes, the hold of his jaw, and the crease in his brow. It's almost as if he's breaking, somehow. She didn't get the answer earlier and she still doesn't understand, but the desire is overwhelming. If only she had words, something for the moment, but nothing comes to mind. All she knows is she wants to hold him, to love him.

He raises his left hand between them, turning it to let his knuckles gently brush against her cheek. He traces over the bruised skin almost reverently, down her to jaw. Her eyes drop closed at the feel of his skin on hers, compelled to angle her head into his touch. The slow drag of his knuckle up her other cheek is so sweetly intimate and it sets her on fire to feel more of his hands. The hands that she'd thought so much about.

She turns her head to let her nose brush the backside of his hand, leaning in to press her lips to the dry skin. Just a light touch, but she repeats the soft caress, matching the gentle sweep of his finger on her cheek. She reaches forward with her left hand, loosely seeking the fingers of his right hand at his side. He'd warned her once not to manhandle his person, but surely they are beyond that now. She runs her fingers gently over his, weaving in between the strong, slender digits. His breath is coming in shallow puffs against her bared neck and it wouldn't even take a full step to close the distance between them. Slowly, gently, he presses against her cheek, turning her face back to his. Her core aches to see his eyes blown wide and dark, his lips parted and moist. She wrenches a swallow down her dry throat, leaning in as her eyes close. Her nose brushes to his, breaths mingling in the space between their lips as the air in the room suddenly seems unbearably oppressive.

Her left hand drifts up his arm against the smooth wool of his jacket and over the plane of his chest. Even through the layers of clothing, she can feel its rapid rise and fall to match his breaths that dance on her lips. At the first graze of a button on his waistcoat, his lips find hers.

She moans at the contact, pressing back and eager for him. His kiss is heavy and longing, and she drinks in all that he offers. Her mouth opens to his, flavors of vanilla and tobacco intoxicating as they mix on their tongues. His hand falls from her cheek to the curve of her neck, drawing her in closer to him. A whimper sounds in her throat as she presses into him, at last feeling the solid lines of his lithe body, the hard evidence of his arousal. And she wants it. She _wants_ him. She didn't think she would ever want anyone like this again. But as she wiggles her fingers between the crush of their bodies to undo the first, then second, buttons of his waistcoat, she doesn't know how she could have been so wrong.

With effort to let go, she angles her head to let her lips just hover over his, their breaths matching in rapid pants. She shifts to allow her hand easier access, the last buttons falling free, but the jacket first. He doesn't stop her as she grazes over his lapels before easing the black wool off his shoulders and down his arms. It falls easily to the vanity top, atop his already discarded items, forgotten as she settles to the buttons of his shirt.

One by one, she bares his undershirt, lost to the pull of his eyes so wide and close. He turns his head, his nose nuzzling her cheek, drifting down to her jaw. His lips follow, so light, almost ticklish with his mustache against such sensitive skin. She can't help but smile, unable to believe she's not dreaming. With practiced ease, the catches of his suspenders fall away and she pulls his shirts free. The time it takes her to slide her hands under his shirts and graze skin is agonizing. His skin is so warm to touch, sprinkled with a light dusting of hair. She starts to inch the layers up, longing to wrap her arms around his bare chest.

He doesn't let her get far before leveraging his height and stepping forward, feeling her fall into step with him. It's only a few careful steps until the back of her knees brush against the hard frame of her bed. There's an urgency seeping into the press of his lips on her neck, the caress of his tongue. It matches perfectly to the ache in her body, centered in her core, so ready for him. She drops to the bed as her hands slide down the soft skin of his belly, the stiff outline in his trousers. The stuttered hiss from his lips at her touch is perfect.

She holds his gaze as she leans forward over her legs, quickly reaching and pulling her first shoe free. For a strangely inelegant moment as they both reach and toe off their dusty footwear, the rest of the world eats at the edges of her mind – the other whores with their thin walls like hers, the distant drone of the piano and the din of laughter downstairs. This moment is so fragile and her chest aches to think of what will happen when it ends. But for now, his eyes see only her, skin peeks above his slackened trousers and she reaches for his hand.

His knee sinks into the mattress as he falls forward until she's splayed out before him. She can't keep from kissing him and her lips slot effortlessly to his. He tastes her in deep, long strokes as his hand traces across the lace of her dress. As he drifts over her hips, she realizes she's gently rocking up, trying to reach his body that's just out of reach. And he stays there, torturing her, hooking his hand around the crook of her knees under her bunched-up skirt and sliding her further onto the bed. His fingers are scorching against her skin. She wants to plead, to beg him to touch her, and the fervor bleeds through in her kiss. She grapples for his hand, still on her knee and guides him up the inside of her thigh, her bruise all but forgotten. She knows she shouldn't ask him for this. She knows she should be the one pleasuring him, driving him to his wits end. But if he's willing to give it, not even Mother Mary bursting through the door would keep her from feeling this man's hands on her, inside her.

She stifles a whimper at the first brush of his fingers against her swollen, wet skin. He groans, raspy and feral, to feel her so ready for him as his fingers gather the moisture to rub and tease. Her back arches as he settles into a rhythm. God, it's been so long since anyone touched her like this. He noses her neck, sucking on her pulse as she writhes and trembles under his touch. She rocks shamelessly into his hand, biting off a moan when a long finger breaches her at last. Her hands are lost to the sandy-brown waves of his hair as he nuzzles her chest, her body tightening around him. The wave breaks too suddenly for her to catch the cry on her lips, and she comes undone.

When she comes back to herself, she realizes he's watching her. The emotion – is that fondness, or something more? – in his eyes is overwhelming. Her brain isn't working through the blissful haze, so she leans up, meeting his lips, languid and relaxed. She wants to tell him how long it's been since someone else brought her this release, and how she's missed it so. But her hands settle to the buttons of his trousers instead. She wants to feel him let go, to feel the way she does.

In a few easy moves, with a few whispers of cloth, her dress is gone and he matches her, sans shirts and trousers. The rest of him is just as pale as his face, but there's undeniable strength in his lean muscles. He fits against her body so easily and when he settles between her legs, tears prickle the edge of her eyes.

"Doc…." Her word escapes on a whimpered breath, a plea. He pushes forward and her hips shift to meet him.

"John." His voice is deep and gravely in her ear as he settles inside her, groaning at the heat engulfing him. In a slow movement, he rolls his hips to empty and fill her again.

"John." Her hands cling to his shoulders as he continues to move in a slow rocking rhythm. It's exquisite and everything and not enough all at once. He readily agrees and she abandons herself to him as his movements gain urgency, the coil within her winding on each thrust. His breathing is wet and ragged in her ear, until it finally catches and his hips stutter to match. The taut line of her spine releases, boneless, onto the mattress. With a last, slow thrust, the room fills with the cadence of their uneven breaths.

Her nose brushes against the sweaty line of his jaw, breathing him in, lost in the feel of his body all around her. In this moment, she can't believe he's actually ill. No man in full health has ever made her feel like this – God forgive her, not even her husband. But suddenly his frame is racked with a shuddering, rattling cough, as if her thoughts had summoned it. He shuffles off her, trying to draw deep breaths and will the debilitating cough away. The only thing she can do is place a comforting hand to his back, rubbing soothing circles as he breathes through his fit. Blessedly, it doesn't last long. She catches the smear of blood that he wipes from his lips before he turns back to her.

She wants to tell him that everything will be alright. That she wishes he weren't sick. To please stay with her. Or take her away. At least until the end of his days.

Tears sting her eyes but she won't them fall.

"Please…John. Stay with me, for tonight." Her voice threatens to break the spell between them and the conflict is visible in the way his eyes glaze over and the mask of aloof arrogance starts to slip back into place. "Please." It's the only thing she can think to say. If he won't be swayed, then she'll watch him dress and walk out the door. She has no right to expect anything more.

She's not sure what convinces him to settle back against the mattress, shifting the pillows into place for them both. But after she blows out the lamp and stretches out alongside him in the dark, her hand splayed against his chest, her heart swells with happiness and she doesn't care.

xxx

A thundering boom splinters the night. She starts against the pillow, eyes suddenly wide. It takes her a sleep-addled minute to recognize the rain on the roof, the flashes of lightening. But the sight of her bed companion is enough to ease her alarm from the rude awakening.

He's remarkably corpse-like as he lays propped at a harsh angle against her headboard. The bursts of lightening do little to project life on the pale skin of his chest bared by the bed linens. To get a closer look, she shifts against the pillow and it seems to rouse him. He turns his head slightly in her direction, just in time for the lightening to catch in his heavy eyes. Liquid suddenly sloshes against glass in the darkness as a bottle appears. Wordlessly, he fits the bottle to his lips for a long drink. Did he really sneak down to the bar? She raises up on her elbow and adjusts her pillow so she's laying like him. At this close distance, she can hear the raspy rattle in his rotting lungs, even over the storm outside. He looks so utterly lost to despair and she can't tear her eyes away.

The bottle makes another appearance but after he drinks, he extends it silently in her direction. She takes it in unspoken gratitude, indulging in a taste of the familiar bourbon. Pete'll be furious to find it missing, but he won't be able to do much about it.

She takes another pull before handing it back to him, brushing and holding his fingers in the darkness.

"Does it help?" Her words are soft against the falling rain.

"Very much so." His voice is pitched low and rough from the extended silence. She doesn't even want to guess the hour.

"I'm…I'm glad you're still here." His head rolls towards her on the pillow, gentle raspy coughs accompanying the movement.

"It's a nice feeling, to feel wanted. While not something I'm accustomed to, I'm not of a mind to dismiss it so easily." She smiles at him, soft and sweet, enjoying the warm flutter in her chest.

"You really are sumthin', John."

"That's how I like it." There's something infinitely satisfied on his voice, almost courageous in his brazen roguishness. The bourbon bottle glints in the darkness and another drink is shared. Laying here with him like this, at this hour, is so intimate and peaceful. It pits in her stomach – the knowledge that she may never have this again; and not since George died has she ever come this close. She knows this fleeting time with him is something to cherish, and at his word or action, it will end. But for now, she hangs by this moment, by this thread. Like a button ready to fall from his jacket at the brush of a hand.

Thunder shatters the peace, pulling a startled gasp from her as she jumps against the mattress, disturbed from her thoughts.

"Come here, darlin'." Lazily he shifts his arm to invite her closer. She settles into him, against his shoulder so as not to impede his breathing. His skin is damp and shockingly warm, even feverish, but it's of no bother.

Between the rain, the bourbon, his uneven breaths and the overwhelming contentment, it's all too easy to drift off.

xxx

Grace thinks about that night constantly these days.

At first, it was impossible to believe. No one in her family suffered from consumption, so why should she? The doctor said it was the damnedest thing. But once the initial days of fever that kept her bedridden had passed, and the persistent cough lingered, it hadn't taken long for the blood to follow.

They call it the 'noble disease', but once it hit her, it hit hard and fast. The doctor had said she had a year, maybe two. She didn't want to believe him, and it worked. For a while. The color started to leech from her skin, chasing off the more cautious clientele. But there were still many others who were far more willing and Mother Mary had no trouble accepting their money.

Within seven months, her strength deserted her. She could see John clearly in her memory – standing upright, his hands steady, his thrusts solid. Yet, here she was, unable to get out of bed.

The carriage came the first week after. Mother Mary and the coachman concluded the business, the destination and the associated expenses. As she was carried down from her room and out into the high morning sun, she could just make out the words painted on the carriage side.

St. Benedict's Sanatorium

The poor bed springs make the mattress lumpy. The laudanum helps her not to mind. Overall, she likes it. But the blood comes more each day and the invisible corset around her lungs continues to tighten. The sisters have brought the priest a few times, but she has nothing to say.

Beyond all reckoning, she knows how she got here. And she's ready to pay up.

A life of sin. A life of depravity in the name of survival.

 _A life that lead me to a single night with John._

The thought makes her smile. In fact, she sees him standing right there – close enough to reach for one of his mesmerizing hands. But the hand is cold and spindly against hers. Slowly, she blinks and it's just the kindly sister.

She coughs herself to sleep that night.

 _Fin_

" _I was in love once. My first cousin. We were both so…. She joined a convent over the affair. She was all I ever wanted."_


End file.
